by Sam Barone
“The Alur Meriki.” Garal said the words softly, almost as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes. “That’s a sight I never thought I would live to see. Now we just have to hope that they don’t decide to kill us all.”
“Not likely.” Sargon doubted the Alur Meriki would risk everything just to kill a few hundred Ur Nammu. “Besides, Subutai is with them.”
The two Sarums, Bekka and Subutai, rode side by side. Fashod accompanied Subutai, and another warrior rode beside Bekka.
The leaders halted before the tent. Bekka wore a crude bandage on his left arm, but if it caused him any discomfort, he hid it well. Subutai also had taken a wound, just below the right shoulder. A crude bandage had staunched the blood, but traces had stained the dirty cloth.
“Well, young Sargon of Akkad,” Bekka said, gazing down at the two young men, “it’s good to see you survived. How many men have you challenged to battle today?”
Sargon bowed. “I believe I’ve had more than enough fighting, Clan Leader Bekka.”
“All my warriors will give fervent thanks to the gods for that, then,” Bekka said, a trace of a smile on his face. He slipped his right leg over his horse’s neck and dropped to the ground. “I can use a rest from riding and fighting.”
Sargon handed Bekka the water skin. The Sarum drank deeply, then passed it on to his men.
“The Sarum of the Alur Meriki and his warriors arrived just in time.” Subutai dismounted as well, though he took care with his movements. “Another day, and the Ur Nammu would have been destroyed.” He glanced around. “And what is this place?”
Sargon related what he’d seen in the baggage train. “This man that Garal captured is someone of importance. He may be useful to my father.”
“He is Sargon’s prisoner as much as mine,” Garal said. “Sargon had already wounded him. All I did was tap him on the head.”
Bekka glanced at Subutai. “We may have questions for him as well.”
“We’ve taken a few other prisoners,” Subutai said. “We’ll start with them. When it’s this one’s turn, I’m sure he’ll be glad to tell us everything he knows.”
The Ur Nammu had as little use for prisoners as did the Alur Meriki. Those who would not make docile slaves were put to death, after spending time being tortured by the clan’s women, who were even more expert at dispensing pain than their men.
The prisoner stirred. He groaned, then opened his eyes. The pain on his faced vanished, replaced by a look of terror as realization of his fate set in.
“What is your name?” Sargon spoke in the same trader’s language he’d used when the Ur Nammu had first encountered the Carchemishi, little more than ten days ago.
The man turned to Sargon, surprised that someone so young would be questioning him. He stared sullenly at his captors for a moment, but said nothing.
Garal drew his knife, and squatted down beside the prisoner. He seized him by the hair and put the edge of his knife against the man’s nose. He glanced up at Sargon. “Should I cut it off?”
“Answer the question, or lose your nose.” Sargon kept his voice calm. “After that, we’ll turn you over to the women for the rest of the day. By then you’ll be begging to talk, just to stop the pain.”
Garal pressed harder, and the sharp blade cut a grove just above the nostrils. A thin line of blood leaked down and across the man’s mouth.
“Kamanis.” He rolled his eyes toward Garal, who kept up the pressure. “My name is Kamanis.”
“And you are . . . ?”
Kamanis hesitated, glancing around at the men staring down at him. “I’m just a soldier. I’m just a guard. I guard the baggage train.”
Sargon translated again.
“Hold your knife!” Bekka snapped out the command, but without waiting for Garal to move, the Alur Meriki Sarum took two steps and lashed out with his foot, the thick leather sandal smashing into Kamanis’s face.
The prisoner’s head snapped back so hard that Sargon thought Bekka had broken the man’s neck. The man slumped against the side of the tent. Fresh blood from his mouth joined the trickle from his nose.
Bekka drew his own knife. He grabbed at Kamanis’s head, gripping him by the hair and knocking Garal’s hand aside. The point of Bekka’s blade dug into the corner of the man’s eye.
“Tell him if he lies again, he’ll be looking at his own eye.” Bekka emphasized his words with another jab of the knife
A gasp of pain sounded.
Sargon translated Bekka’s threat. “I think you had better decide whether you want to keep the ruler of the clan that just defeated your soldiers waiting. Or you can tell us everything we want to know, and you might live long enough to reach my father, the King of Akkad. He’s more merciful than these steppes warriors, and he may find it useful to keep you alive.”
The moment Sargon finished, Bekka shoved the tip of the knife in deeper. Blood now pulsed from the eye socket.
“Wait! I’ll tell you! My name is Kamanis. I am . . . I was a commander of this army.”
Bekka glanced over his shoulders at Sargon, who translated once again.
Grudgingly, as if annoyed that he could not gouge out the man’s eye, Bekka eased the knife away and stood. “If he changes his mind and keeps silent, or tries to lie, bring him to me. And tell him that a slave who won’t answer questions or fails to tell the truth will be seated on a stake.”
Sargon didn’t understand the threat, but Subutai explained it.
“We take a sapling and bury one end deep in the earth. The other end is sharpened, and the prisoner sits on it, until the point reaches just below his stomach. The man dies, but slowly. A strong man can last almost a day, and every moment is filled with the worst pain you can imagine.”
“I will tell him, Chief Bekka.” Sargon nodded to Subutai.
“Then we will leave him here with you,” Subutai said, “since you’re the only one who speaks his language anyway. Learn whatever you can from him. After that, we’ll decide what to do with him.”
Subutai glanced down at Kamanis. “Tell him he’s lucky to be in your hands, not mine.” He turned to Bekka. “Come. We still have many to hunt down.” He called out to Garal as he retrieved his mount’s halter. “Stay with Sargon and the prisoner. Make sure Sargon has whatever he needs.”
The two clan leaders mounted. A moment later, they and their men galloped off, leaving a cloud of dust that swirled across the ground, driven by the breeze.
“Let’s get Kamanis inside,” Sargon said. “We’ll start questioning the girls first.”
“There’s plenty of time,” Garal said, staring over Sargon’s shoulder. Suddenly a smile covered his face. “I think there’s something else you should attend to first.”
Sargon turned. Tashanella rode slowly toward them, picking her way through the debris of the wagon train. She held a lance in her right hand, the point streaked with blood.
Garal saw the expression on Sargon’s face and laughed. “Maybe she can help question the prisoner.”
But Sargon barely heard his words. He was running to meet his woman.
34
Fifteen days later, Sargon sat outside of his tent, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun, the effects of a full meal settling inside his stomach, and the pleasant company of his companions. Seated beside him were Garal, Jennat, and an unexpected guest, Den’rack, of the Alur Meriki. The tent had formerly belonged to Kamanis, but Subutai had given it to Sargon and Tashanella as a wedding gift, along with most of its contents.
Actually, the recently married couple possessed two tents. Eventually the second one would be for Sargon’s future servants and slaves, but now it served as a place to keep Kamanis under guard. The Carchemishi commander had soon grasped the reality of his situation, after he heard the screams of many of his former soldiers rising up into the sky.
Following the defeat of the Carchemishi forces, Sargon had not expected to find more than a handful of the invaders alive. But over the next few days, more than a hundred su
rvivors were captured and returned to the camp of the Ur Nammu as prisoners. Subutai had ordered a count of the dead, and after that tally, he estimated that perhaps two hundred or so managed to escape the debacle. The rest of the Carchemishi invaders perished. As battles went, Subutai declared, this one was a great victory, and one with few losses.
Subutai had moved his clan back near their former location along the banks of the stream. On the other side, less than a quarter mile away, stood the tents of the Alur Meriki. After the last of the invaders were killed or captured, Bekka had set up a temporary camp for his forces, to hold the large number of horses taken from the enemy.
The day after the attack, Bekka and Subutai, in front of their men, had sworn the oath of friendship. The Alur Meriki forces would soon return to their caravan, but first the wounded needed time to heal. Not to mention that dividing up the spoils captured from the Carchemishi – food, gold, weapons, and horses – had taken longer than expected.
Subutai had insisted that most of the horses and loot be given to Bekka and his men, since they had saved the lives of the Ur Nammu clan. The goods that the Alur Meriki retained as their share far exceeded anything they’d captured in the last several years.
Both clan leaders had acknowledged their debt to Sargon. His audacious visit had, after all, led to an easy victory for Chief Bekka’s warriors. As a result, Sargon was as welcome in the Alur Meriki camp as in that of the Ur Nammu. Sargon understood the need to build good relations between the two former enemies, and visited the Alur Meriki warriors as often as he could.
The third day after the battle, Bekka had taken three hundred warriors and, mounted on fresh Carchemishi horses, ridden for his caravan. Unegen and Den’rack had accompanied him. At the time, Sargon had wondered why Bekka had rushed off, leaving behind Clan Leader Suijan in command.
Today, twelve days after his departure, Chief Bekka and Den’rack, along with fifty horsemen, had returned to the Ur Nammu camp. Now, as Den’rack’s story unfolded, Sargon understood the reason for Bekka’s hasty departure.
“So, after Chief Bekka explained the size of our victory over the Carchemishi to the whole caravan, and told them about the weapons and horses taken,” Den’rack continued, “no one dared to question Bekka’s right to be Sarum. Except for Trayack, who could not keep his tongue silent in his shame. None of his clan, of course, would receive anything from the victory. Trayack’s foolish words gave Bekka the chance to challenge him to a fight.”
“I wish we could have seen that,” Garal said.
Den’rack shook his head. “Better such things are not seen by outsiders. Almost everyone watching assumed that Trayack would kill Bekka. Trayack was bigger and stronger, but not as cunning. Chief Bekka used his horse to his advantage, and outfought his opponent. After many strokes, Bekka hacked off Trayack’s sword arm, and then left him face down on the ground, until he bled to death.”
Sargon understood both the necessity and the politics behind Bekka’s actions. The Sarum of the Alur Meriki had accomplished all his goals. He’d won not only a battle, but a great victory, and brought pride and glory back to the Alur Meriki.
At the same time, he’d proven himself both a strong fighter and a cunning leader on the battlefield. Bekka had also eliminated the only other clan leader who’d dared to challenge his right to be Sarum. And with the large number of captured horses divided up among his men, Bekka would rule the great clan uncontested in the future.
All the same, the news of Trayack’s death brought a smile to Sargon’s face. “At least I won’t have to worry about Trayack any longer. And you say that Unegen is now a chief?”
“Yes, Bekka gave Unegen all of Trayack’s warriors.” Den’rack took another sip of water from his cup. “Chief Bekka praised Unegen before all the warriors in the camp, and declared that much of the Carchemishi victory belonged to him.”
“And you are now a leader of fifty,” Garal said. “What did Bekka say of your efforts?”
Den’rack could not conceal his satisfaction. “I, too, received some praise. With my share of the spoils, I shall have no trouble finding a few new wives.”
Everyone laughed.
“The Ur Nammu owe you and your people much,” Sargon said. “The distrust that many once felt is almost gone. Even I can see that.”
“It’s true,” Jennat said. “Den’rack, no Ur Nammu warrior will ever forget what your people did for us.”
“So what brought Chief Bekka back here?” Sargon changed the subject. No matter how sincere the debt, no one liked being reminded of an obligation.
“I’m sure he has more important things to do than count horses.” Sargon knew that the others wanted to hear the answer to that question, but were too polite to ask. He, as the outsider, could raise it easily enough.
Soon after Bekka’s arrival, the Sarum of the Alur Meriki and his clan chiefs had met with Subutai, Fashod, and Chinua. Even now, they continued their talk on the edge of the camp, where none could hear their words.
“I do not know . . . for certain.” Den’rack hesitated, obviously concerned about saying too much. “After killing Trayack, Chief Bekka spoke long into the night with Chief Urgo, Unegen, and a few others. But he said nothing on the journey here. Some of us thought Chief Bekka returned to meet with you, Sargon of Akkad.”
Sargon laughed. “I doubt they need my counsel on anything.”
Hoof beats sounded throughout the camp, and the four men turned to watch a scout galloping into camp, his horse covered with sweat. The rider headed straight for Subutai’s tent, paused for a moment, then continued on to where the leaders were meeting.
“I wonder what news he brings,” Garal mused. “That horse is finished for the day.”
“He was patrolling to the south,” Jennat said. “Not much danger likely to come from there.”
In that direction lay the empty lands, and beyond them, the outlying forts and territory of Akkad. Everyone turned to Sargon.
“Perhaps word from Akkad has come,” Sargon offered. “More than enough time has passed for word to reach the city and for my father to send a reply.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Jennat turned to Den’rack. “What do your people think about the Akkadians?”
Den’rack shrugged. “No warrior likes to be reminded of the man who defeated him. But Sargon’s father is a brave man. I could not believe my eyes when he rode into our midst after the battle at the stream. I thought certain some angry warrior would strike him down, but no one dared challenge him. Perhaps if Thutmose-sin had ruled more wisely, that battle would not have happened.”
“My father is a brave man.” Sargon uttered the words without enthusiasm.
“As are you, Sargon of Akkad.” Den’rack broke an uncomfortable silence. “Not many would have ridden into our camp the way you did. I thought certain you would die that night at Trayack’s hands.”
Before Sargon could reply, a young boy, one of Subutai’s messengers, raced toward them.
“Your father approaches, Sargon.” The boy had to pause to catch his breath. “He will arrive tomorrow, sometime after midday.”
Sargon thanked the lad, who nodded and darted off.
“What will you say to him?” Garal knew all about the rift between father and son. “He may want you to return to Akkad.”
“In that case he will be disappointed.”
“You intend to stay here with the Ur Nammu?” Den’rack couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
Sargon nodded. “I have a wife now, and duties as a warrior. Besides, my father has no need of my services.”
“Well, there is a time for all things.” Den’rack settled back on his heels. “I for one am glad that you will stay with the warriors. Otherwise life would be far too dull.”
Garal glanced at Jennat. “Oh, yes, wherever Sargon goes, trouble is sure to follow.”
That evening, after his friends had gone, Sargon closed the tent flap against the night’s breezes. He unlaced his sandals and stretched
out on the thick blanket, yet another prize from Kamanis’s bower of plenty. Sargon watched as Tashanella dropped to her knees and pulled her dress up and over her head. Her long tresses caught for a moment, and she had to shake her head to loosen the dark strands.
Her body continued to delight him, the firm breasts that jutted out over the flat stomach. She smiled at his gaze, no longer as shy as she had been in the beginning.
“So, Husband, your father comes. What will you say to him?” She leaned over him, and placed her hands on his shoulders, letting her breasts brush against his lips.
His father. It was always his father. And when it wasn’t, his mother’s presence made itself felt. Tonight, however, Sargon refused to think about them.
His parents and their concerns no longer troubled him. Subutai could never abandon the debt he owed Sargon. The leader of the Ur Nammu had already acknowledged as much. He’d given Sargon his favorite daughter, and promised him a high place among the clan’s warriors.
“Perhaps you should ask what he will say to me.” Sargon brushed his lips against a firm nipple, until Tashanella gasped with pleasure. “Not that the King of Akkad has any power over me.”
His wife snuggled against him, and he felt the warmth from her body against his chest. “What will he say when he learns of our marriage? Will he be angry?”
Sargon shook his head. “No, that’s not his way. It takes a great deal before he loses his temper. Once he does, though . . .”
“I hope he thinks I am pretty enough for his son, prettier than all the girls you left behind in Akkad.”
“Of that, you need not have any fear.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her throat. “None of the soft and lazy women in Akkad can even come close to your beauty.”
He shivered as her hand traveled down his chest and moved between his thighs. Sargon heard a giggle of delight when she found him hard and ready.